Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

Was he going to ensconce her where Mary had slept? Where she had died as well?

  A shudder passed through her. The notion both terrified and pleased her at once. She shuddered again, hoping he wouldn’t acknowledge it, and said quietly, “It is more than I am accustomed to, I’m certain.”

  She felt his gaze boring into her, and the corridor, good Lord, seemed to grow darker the closer they got to their destination. It was her imagination, certainly, as the decor had scarcely changed, but for the richly woven carpets that stretched beneath their feet now, softening their footfalls. Over the thundering of her heart, she could barely hear Mel as she followed quietly behind them.

  He pointed out the nursery as they passed it, then stopped at the very next door.

  It had been left ajar for them, and inside Sarah could see the few pieces of her own luggage that Gunther had carried ahead. Gunther, however, was nowhere to be seen. As they entered, she saw that the door to the nursery, too, had been left ajar, and then she heard a hall door open and close once more. Gunther, she thought. He’d departed through the nursery, and she made a mental note that her room was accessible through the nursery as well.

  “You should find the room easy enough to navigate,” he reassured her. “For Christopher’s sake, we keep our decor rather sparse here.”

  It was true. There was very little excess furniture about to tumble over—in her room, only a bed, a small nightstand, and a wardrobe upon the far wall.

  Was this, then, the room where Mary had slept?

  Upon the left wall there was a small window. Sarah stared at it, wondering, fearing it might be the window through which the intruder had entered. It wouldn’t behoove her, however, to ask, and she blinked away the thoughts, reminding herself that the papers had said the intruder had come in through the nursery itself, shattering the glass window above the crib. No crib here. This was not the nursery... and yet... this had to be where Mary had slept... where she had been awakened from her slumber that night...

  The images tormented her.

  She shoved them resolutely aside.

  “How would you like to proceed?” he asked, bringing her back to their present discussion. “Do you wish me to give you some time to settle in before meeting with Christopher or shall I lead you there directly?”

  Sarah’s first inclination was to go to Christopher, but her hands were shaking, and her thoughts were entirely too scattered. “I think I would appreciate a few moments to settle,” she said. “That might be better, so I may spend the time with your son free of that task later.”

  “I understand,” he said, and proposed, “Perhaps we should wait, then, and see you at dinner?”

  The suggestion surprised her. “Christopher shares your evening meals?”

  He smiled at her. “Of course.”

  “You must be very close, then? The two of you...”

  He answered without hesitation. “He is my son, Miss Hopkins.”

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to imply...”

  “I know,” he said, dismissing the subject once and for all, and turned to address Mel, who had stood quietly in the doorway, listening to their discourse. “I suppose I shall leave you, then... to settle... and I’ll lead Mrs. Frank to the servants’ quarters.”

  Mel said nothing, and Sarah felt a twinge of panic at the prospect of a separation. “Yes,” she answered anyway. And added, “Thank you.” She dared to meet Mel’s gaze only briefly through her dark glasses. Mel’s expression, ever calm, eased her.

  “Till tonight,” he suggested, and ushered Mel away, closing the door behind them, leaving Sarah for the first time alone.

  Why did he feel he knew her?

  Something in Sarah Hopkins’ manner was entirely too familiar, and Peter found himself experiencing a strange sense of deja vu.

  He peered down at the woman who had accompanied her into his home. “How long have you been working for Miss Hopkins?”

  She hesitated before answering. “Oh, about three years.”

  “She seems quite a remarkable woman,” Peter proposed, watching her curiously.

  Mrs. Frank was a strange paradox of a woman; nothing about her seemed remotely subservient, not from their first introduction. He supposed it was a trait necessary in a blind woman’s aide. He was certain it was nothing at all the same position as it would be to work for the seeing. Sarah needed guidance, and it was Mrs. Frank’s duty to give it.

  “She is,” Mrs. Frank replied.

  “I’m curious. How did you come to work for her?”

  “My husband was blind,” she replied. “I suppose I chose this career for the same reason Miss Hopkins chose to enter the teaching profession. It was a fine way of turning a bad experience to some greater good.”

  “That is quite commendable.”

  She smiled up at him, her blue eyes twinkling. “Not at all, Mr. Holland. Some of us deal with unfortunate circumstances by accepting a sort of premature death. Others use them to live by.”

  Sage words. Peter digested them, and said, “I think we shall get along quite well, Mrs. Frank.”

  She peered up at him and surprised him with a wink. “If not, then I can always find my way to the door, Mr. Holland. Can’t I?”

  Her reply brought a smile to Peter’s lips. Saucy woman. Remembering Sarah’s tart replies to him during her interview, he was not the least surprised that the two of them got along so famously.

  For himself, he seemed quite partial to strong women—they intrigued him.

  The last woman who had spoken to him so defiantly... he’d ended up marrying; he was going to have to continue to remind himself what a disaster that had turned out to be.

  Peter knew he was prying, but couldn’t seem to help himself. While he wouldn’t consider broaching such a tender subject with Sarah, he hardly saw the harm in asking Mrs. Frank. The worst she could do was to tell him to mind his own affairs.

  Still, he hesitated. “You wouldn’t happen to know... how Miss Hopkins lost her sight?’ ‘

  She peered up at him and gave him a look that warned him it was, indeed, a delicate topic. “Terrible accident,” she replied, and shook her head. “I wouldn’t bring it up, were I you. She lost a fiance in that accident that day, along with her sight.”

  “Fiance?” Peter’s brows lifted. Why did that bit of knowledge disturb him? She was hardly a child, nor was her personal life any of his affair. Nor should he be surprised that someone so lovely would have found herself attached.

  “Any more than that,” Mel added, dismissing the topic, “and you shall have to ask Sarah, I’m afraid.”

  Peter fully intended to—not that he had any right to know, but when had that ever stopped him before?

  No, Sarah Hopkins was quite an interesting woman, and he found himself intrigued.

  He hadn’t left her with a light, but Sarah supposed he hadn’t thought she’d need one. What need had a blind woman for a light to see by? No, she would simply have to make do.

  Her room was not large, but hardly was it small. And yet it seemed cavernous with its notable lack of furnishings. Bathed in shadows as it was, the room seemed permeated by something dark, almost sinister. Sarah inspected every nook and every cranny with keen eyes.

  If Mary had used this room, little remained as evidence to the fact. There were no portraits upon the walls or furnishings, nothing at all of Mary’s taste to remind her, and yet... something of Mary was here... or perhaps it was merely Sarah’s imagination. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she knew the room’s history. No matter, she liked to think she and Mary still had some connection of sorts.

  Silly, perhaps, but somehow she liked to think Mary would guide her now.

  The bed was a small one, occupying a corner of the room almost inconspicuously. The bed coverings themselves were nondescript and blended with the shadows. And the view from the single window was obscured by shades that were drawn.

  Sarah made her way to the window, lifting the shade to peer outside. It slipped from her gra
sp and sprang open, letting in daylight and scattering dust motes.

  A group of small children played upon the street, batting at rocks with sticks.

  They must be about Christopher’s age, she thought... perhaps a year or two older. But Christopher would never join them.

  She wondered if he knew what he was missing. Was he happy? He certainly seemed it, and yet... the child needed his mother. He had his aunt, of course, but Sarah had little more than a name and a voice to go by as yet, and the voice had hardly been warm.

  Turning from the window, she mustered her courage and ventured to the door joining her room to the nursery. She took the knob in hand and drew it a bit wider, peering within.

  This room was far more cheery in its decor.

  Light and airy blue draperies adorned the full-length French windows, letting in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. The other three walls were vividly decorated with the images of a carousel. Designed to appear as though the room in its entirety were a carousel in motion, horses and unicorns and bears and zebras leapt about playfully. The domed ceiling, too, was adorned, completing the illusion, and a vibrant blue and white circular carpet was spread upon the nursery floor.

  The crib itself sat before the windows still, a grim reminder of that horrible night. Terrible images accosted Sarah as her gaze fell upon it, and she winced in pain at what her cousin must have suffered at the hands of a killer.

  Morbid curiosity drew her farther into the room.

  Leaving the door ajar behind her, she ventured toward the crib.

  It was bare... as though it had been stripped that night so long ago and never again remade. Sunlight pierced the windowpanes and fell across the wood, highlighting the rich maple grain. It continued across the floor and lit upon the face of a blue unicorn on the far wall with its icicle horn and vivid violet eyes.

  It was a child’s fantasy, this room, a feast for the senses, with its display of colors and parade of exotic toys. Little wooden toy soldiers lined one shelf, and colorfully painted blocks, another. Every sort of toy, from a red and white painted drum set to an enormous hand-carved rocking horse with a lamb’s-wool mane and black onyx eyes, lay about in careful precision, untouched, it seemed, by raucous little-boy hands.

  The sight of it all saddened her, left her feeling a keen sense of loss.

  How ironic that such a stunning room should be painted for a little boy who would never see it.

  In a strange way, it was almost as though no child had been born to Mary at all, because the little boy Sarah had spied a week before in his father’s office had been a somber little child, with the soul of an adult.

  Contemplating that, Sarah abandoned the nursery and returned to her room. The door closed with a scrape, but no click. No latch.

  Later she would return, when all were asleep and the house was quiet and there was no chance of discovery.

  Later when her heart was not bleeding and her head was not pounding with thoughts of Peter Holland.

  She didn’t want to think of him this way.

  Didn’t want to think of him at all!

  Whatever was the matter with her that she couldn’t seem to forget the brilliance of his smile?

  He was not some dandy beau, and neither was she some naive schoolgirl waiting to be charmed.

  He was very possibly a murderer.

  And she was the woman who intended to bring him to justice.

  Chapter 6

  Entering his office, Peter made his way directly to where he kept his port, and contemplating the day’s events, poured himself a glass.

  Christ, but he didn’t even like to venture near those rooms!

  That was the reason he hadn’t lingered, despite that he hadn’t wished to leave Sarah so quickly. But even now, so many years later, the sight of those rooms disturbed him in a way he could not quite manage.

  That he’d not closed off the wing entirely was something of a wonder.

  That he’d ensconced his guest there was a matter of necessity.

  In the years since his wife’s death, the Holland estate had entertained few guests. Polite society had little enough to do with a second-generation American responsible for his own fortunes, and less with one suspected of murdering his own wife. Even if Peter were inclined to give a damn at this late hour, he didn’t think he could simply ignore the fact that they had all been so quick to judge him. It had been a brutal reminder to him that he was an outsider—and always would be. No matter that they were cowed by him, no matter that they threw their money at him to invest for them—or that he had more money than the bloody lot of them together—he would never be one of them.

  Well, it didn’t matter.

  His priority was his son.

  Taking the glass with him, he sat within his chair at his desk, setting the glass down just out of reach as he contemplated his guest.

  Something about Sarah Hopkins... something he couldn’t quite put his finger on... something disturbed him, as well as intrigued him.

  She was lovely, yes... and she was quick and intelligent, too. He heard it in her words as she spoke... recognized it in her wit, as well. And despite that he seemed to set her teeth on edge, she was caring, too—he’d picked that up in her voice. He’d believed in the sincerity and genuine concern for his son reflected in her words and tone. Even more than the fact that he’d wished to remind his sister who ruled in his home, that had been the deciding factor in his decision to hire her.

  And yet there was something more...

  He stared at his glass of port, seeing it, though not seeing it, but rather peering through it.

  It was his penance... to see it, to smell it, but not to touch it.

  It troubled him that he craved it still, that he would, if he allowed himself, lift up the bloody glass and suck it down to the last swallow.

  He was weak.

  In body and mind, he was weak.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as images of that night came back to plague him. Shame overwhelmed him once again. A woman’s laughter tinkled in his ear... sweat and the taste of female skin manifested upon his tongue and mingled with the sweet burn of port... a tumble to the floor... And then the dreams... dreams that had not been dreams at all—fearful shrieks of a woman in terror, screams that had reverberated down every hall, shattering glass, a babe’s incessant wailing... wails that had sounded within his brain for years afterward... like the guilty dong of a Sunday morning church bell to a man who’d forsworn his faith.

  The wails he sometimes still heard in his nightmares.

  It was the first time he’d strayed from his vows... or rather he’d nearly done so. Were it not for the fact that he’d passed out cold upon the floor, he would have become an adulterer that night as well.

  But it didn’t matter...

  He was guilty as hell.

  His face twisted with self-disgust.

  He would have betrayed her that night, he had no doubt. His body had been hungry and his bed too long cold. His anger had been a balm for his injured pride, but he hadn’t wished her dead... and more, he’d cherished her for the way she’d loved their son. As much as she’d loathed him toward the end, she’d loved their child fiercely. Christopher had felt the warmth of her arms and the glow of her love, and Peter had often snuck into the nursery to find them arm in arm, mother and son. He’d envied his son those nights.

  God, how he’d envied Christopher!

  Mary had even moved her bed within the nursery itself at one point, and had often fallen asleep with Christopher at her breast. The image haunted him still. She had been so beautiful with her golden hair and dark skin... and those blue eyes that had glowed with warmth.

  He hadn’t loved her, hadn’t thought himself capable of it, but he’d respected the hell out of her and he’d liked her immensely. She had been pleasant company and lovely besides, and he’d found himself, upon meeting her, yearning for something more than an empty bed.

  It wasn’t long after they had married that things had begu
n to fall apart, and he faulted himself for it.

  Honesty be damned!

  Why had he felt compelled to be so brutal with the truth? Had he simply refrained from telling her that he cared for her but didn’t love her, she never would have felt so rejected when he’d begun to spend so much time with his business affairs. She had tried so hard to be all that he’d needed, to give him the family and wife he’d craved—tried so hard to make him love her. And perhaps he might have, but they hadn’t had the time.

  They’d been married less than six months before his business had begun to fail and he’d had to spend long hours trying to salvage it. By the time Christopher had been born, she’d withdrawn from him completely, safeguarding her heart with emotional and physical distance. And Peter had allowed it, thinking in his youth and pride that they would have the opportunity later to mend it... that there would be time enough to woo her back once his business was settled... time enough to convince her that if he didn’t love her, per se, he cared for her deeply and would strive with all his might and heart to make her happy.

  But time had slipped away, and not so silently at that.

  His gaze lowered to the glass of port.

  Goddamn bloody rotten drink.

  His father had been inclined to imbibe, but he damned well hadn’t forced Peter to follow in his footsteps.

  How many times had he listened to his father bemoan his own weakness? How many times had his father pleaded with him, even inebriated, never to fall prey to its influence?

  And still Peter had turned to it.

  It had been his own choice to pour that first drink.

  And it had been his own decision to run to it each time thereafter, like a lovesick man into the arms of his mistress.

  When his business had faltered, he’d taken comfort in his drink rather than in the arms of his wife, and she had responded by withdrawing from him completely. Peter couldn’t blame her. He’d never been the least bit affectionate with her, never given her reassurances. She had been much too young to understand that his emotional distance hadn’t had a thing to do with her at all, and he had been too self- absorbed to see that he’d wounded her each time he’d walked away from her heartfelt attempts to comfort him.